


Polaris

by JNLNDSY



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-03 11:49:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13340652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JNLNDSY/pseuds/JNLNDSY
Summary: There's this saying that when you turn your back on someone, it's the furthest you'll ever be with them. Because then you'll have to travel the length of the world to face them again. But in that moment, with her back against Draco Malfoy's, she couldn't be any closer to him.And with that thought in her head, she takes a step forward.





	1. Prologue

There are a lot of things they don’t tell you in war.

On the summer after her first year in Hogwarts, the crippling heat found her and her father in front of the television, watching a muggle war film. She sat there, transfixed, oblivious to what was to come only five years from that day.

In muggle war, there are two opposing sides, distinguished by two different uniforms, two different ideals—the good side and the bad. You see, that was a muggle war, and for all of her wishful thinking that this war could be anything as that, she could only laugh. Laugh in the absurdity of it all, because this is not, by any means, a muggle war.

She ducks down, barely missing the red light that strikes the ground to her left, and delivers a spell of her own to the direction where the previous one came from.

_This_ is war, she thought.

It’s a clearing that would have been beautiful in a different day, but right now is a battlefield, a downright warzone. There are no distinctive uniforms, only a mass of billowing black cloaks.

Spells whizzing in every direction—streaks of blue, red and green illuminating all that is around her; Strangers, friends, foe, family.

She’s not sure if there is even a good and a bad side anymore. For someone who was threading in the middle of it, uncertainty was all that consumed her.

She’s bleeding, if the warm wetness on her shoulder was any indication. She’s also pretty sure that two fingers on her wand hand are broken, but she runs, because she needs to.

She needs to—for her cause, for the future and for _him._ She runs as if her life depended on it, because, well, it does.

Her frantic running distances her from the intensity of the battle, and she can breathe easier now. She is almost at the edge of the forest when she trips on a fallen body, and with this, she finally breaks down.

It comes back to her all at once; the war, the looming threat of death, the things she left behind and the things she left it behind for.

It’s all too much for her at that moment, and it’s so ridiculous. There she was, the so called brightest witch of her age, the brains of the Golden Trio, sobbing beside a dead body of a person she doesn’t even recognize.

This body—does it belong to the good side or the bad? She was not sure if she was referring to the one beside her or herself.

She sobs even harder, clawing at her face, removing everything that was obscuring her vision. In her franticness, she scratches a ribbon on her cheek, drawing blood that slides down to the point of her chin, and it’s more blood on her hands.

The footsteps on her right stop her cries and she freezes. She doesn’t know what side they were, they’d kill her either way, but for the sake of everything she held dear, she stops.

“Granger!” The voice seethes. “Son of a—what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

She didn’t even have to look up to see who it was. She’d know that voice anywhere. Only he can put that much venom in his voice, and only she would be the one he would direct it to.

“Go away.”

“Don’t tempt me.” He sounds angry, probably looked like it too. When she doesn’t make a move to get up, he hauls her up from the ground by her injured shoulder. When she cries in protest, he only tightens his hold. “Get yourself together! We’re at war, Granger. Break down another time.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy.” She grits her teeth, clenching her wand at her side.

“I don’t have time for this.” He shoves her towards the forest, and she almost stumbles again. She turns to glare at him when he shoves something at her. “And for fuck’s sake, put your mask on!”


	2. Reeling from the loss

Just how much do we take for granted? That is what she asks herself every day.

A loving embrace of a mother? A firm handshake of a father? An amorous kiss of a lover? Encouraging words of a friend, a stranger? How much do we take these things for granted just because we think that it would always be there?

And just how much does it hurt once all of those things are gone? Does the amount of how much we took for granted weighs the same as the hurt we experience when we lose it? Is it enough to balance the guilt? The pain? The longing?

If both amounts equal to each other, is there anymore space to be at peace with it?

Hermione doesn’t think so.

There are a lot of things she took for granted in her life and the amount of hurt it brought her when she lost it was marginally bigger and it will never amount to each other because she deserved it all; the pain, and guilt and the longing.

It doesn’t weigh the same for her because if it does then she wouldn’t have room for the good things. That little space is what she’s holding on to at the moment—the very thing that’s keeping her sane.

The good things—she snorted at the thought. There aren’t many of them these days, but if she closed her eyes, she swears she can almost feel the comfort it gave her all those years ago.

One of the good things; the greatest gift she had ever received was her Hogwarts letter. One would deem her crazy if they knew that one of her most prized possession was an old, wrinkled and yellowed piece of parchment.

But it was everything to her.

Receiving that envelope gave her both relief and hope. Relief, that she wasn’t so freakishly different after all—that there were _others_ like her. People who can do the same things she once convinced herself were impossible. And hope, that in her very mundane life, there was magic to hold on to, witches and wizards, and dear _God_ , she was one of them now.

And as she stood among her friends, watching the roaring flames consume the, she scoffed as she thought about it, _safe_ house, with her Hogwarts letter in ashes among the other things she had left in her haste, she held on to what was now the greatest gift she had ever received, the number one good thing in her life, the one that occupied that little space between what she took for granted and the hurt it brought by losing those things.

And while he was wetting her shirt with his tears and was probably leaving bruises on her neck with how tight he was clinging to it, she can’t help but to cling back tighter.

And _this, him_ , she will never, ever, take for granted.

* * *

“This is not going to work!” Ron slams his fist on the rickety table of Grimmauld Place, frustration etched on his freckled face.

Seamus, who was beside Ron, hisses as his tea sloshes out of the cup in his hand. The low murmurs of conversation seize at the redhead’s outburst. Lavender gives him a worried look, her teeth clamping on her bottom lip.

Lupin, who was at the head of the table, rubs his temple in exasperation. “I don’t suppose you have a better idea, Mr. Weasley?”

Ron turns a shade of red—in anger or for being put on the spot, Hermione doesn’t know. Before he can explode at their former professor, Harry pulls him back and she turns to Lupin instead.

“What Ron means to say is that we need a backup plan, or at least more fighters.” She suggests, her eyes roaming around the few members of the Order who were in attendance.

Lupin heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his left shoulder. “We do not have the resources for that, Ms. Granger. Surely, you know that.” At her nod, he continues. “The only thing we can do is be quick in retrieving the diadem before the wards get back up, that’s it.”

“You mean we can’t even at least disable the wards permanently?” Ron bellows from Harry’s grip and follows his question with a few chosen profanities. Dean, who was sitting beside Hermione on the kitchen’s countertop, gets up and helps Harry drag a fuming Ron out of the kitchen.

Ginny drops her head in her hands, silent sobs causing her shoulder to shake. Hermione moves to comfort the youngest Weasley when Lupin clears his throat. “I know...that this isn’t the most ideal plan, but it’s all we’ve got.” He looks at all the young faces around him; all wearied by war, and takes a deep breath. “As long as the horcruxes remain—”

“We know, professor.” Neville says from his spot by the stove, fidgeting with his sweater and unaware that he had addressed the man by his previous title even though they’ve been out of school for almost three years now.

“You all know the drill. We leave before dawn and anyone who will not be participating should speak now.” When no one speaks, he rises from his seat and nods.

Harry enters the kitchen then, Dean at his heels. “Ron would not be coming with us.” He looks at Ginny, who was finally sitting upright, and at her red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think you should—”

“No.” Ginny cuts him off. “I’m going.”

“But Molly—”

“—will be fine.”

“But—”

This time, Hermione is the one to cut him off. “Harry...we’re all going.” She says with a tone of finality, her best friend could only nod before exiting the kitchen again. Ginny shoots her a grateful, albeit strained, smile.

It was only when the rest of their group followed to get some rest and only she and Ginny remained in the quiet kitchen did she speak again. “Are you really sure you can do this?”

The redhead lifts her gaze from the table to look at her. “I think I’ve mourned my father quite enough now.” She answers, a lone tear sliding down her cheek.

She holds the younger witch until the clock strikes midnight.

* * *

“You should be asleep.” She reprimands softly from the doorway of her assigned bedroom. She was supposed to only grab her cloak and boots from the room but instead she found him awake and playing with his blanket.

He smiles sheepishly at her and tugs the blanket to his chin. “Pol is sorry, mummy.” He says in his little voice.

Hermione huffs a laugh as she approaches the bed and sits beside the toddler. “You mean _I’m_ sorry.”She corrects. At three and half years old, his speech was well developed, but there was still the matter of his grammar. Being always left with Dobby during her missions, the boy picked up the house elf’s speaking habits and was always referring himself in third person.

Pol nods. “Yes, I’m sorry, mummy.”

Her hand reaches down to pet the soft curls of his hair, finer than hers. “You should go back to sleep. I have somewhere to go.” She places a kiss on the crown of his head.

“Will you be long?” He asks her as he kicks off his blanket.

“Not at all.” She taps his nose to emphasize every word. “Before you even know it, I’m back again and we’ll try that new toy broom Uncle Harry gave you.”

He crawls on her lap and places his hands on each side of her face. She gazes at her son’s eyes, devoid of any disillusionment inside the confines of their room. It was only when their noses were brushing, and they were both slightly cross-eyed did he speak again. “You promise?”

She nods and kisses his little nose. “I promise.”

* * *

The crunching of leaves at her left side makes her point her wand to the direction of the noise. The eerie silence that envelopes the forest makes her jumpy towards any possible sounds.

She sees the moonlight bouncing off the glass surface of his spectacles and has her wand lowering before she could even see his face. “Relax, it’s just me.” Harry says, even though she was already turning her back on him.

Hermione turns her attention to Dean, who was muttering incantations under his breath, doing different strokes with his wand. She imagines Padma, Ernie and Luna doing the same on the other parts of the ward.

There was a barely decipherable crack before she feels the magic sweeping through her. _The wards are down._ The ring on her wand hand goes warm on her finger, and she knows that the other three were also successful in disabling their wards.

“We have exactly ten minutes before they notice that the wards are down.” Dean huffs, standing up from his crouched position. He throws a look towards her and Harry, and with a nod from her best friend, they start running towards the side of the castle.

* * *

Hermione curses as the staircase moves to a different direction before she can even reach the landing, her left foot almost slipping on the edge of it. She’s contemplating on jumping the three-foot distance when a spell hits her right shoulder.

She looks up and sees a Death Eater on the staircase above her. Ducking beside a banister, she only has a couple of seconds to cast a protective shield before another one appears on the landing that she abandoned.

A red spell shatters her shield as her staircase stops its movement. With her wand now unoccupied by the shield, she casts a silent curse towards the Death Eater above her.

She sees the cloaked figure fall down in her peripheral as she takes the other one out with a Stunner. With a newfound adrenaline coursing through her, she takes a few determined steps up the new hallway when a hand snatches the hood of her cloak.

Her back hits a solid chest with a silent thud, a hand clamping down her mouth. In panic, she tosses her head back and hears a satisfying crunch. “Fuck!” The stranger hisses.

She quickly turns around and was met by a glowering Draco Malfoy, his Death Eater mask nowhere in sight. Her wand hand drops to her side, and she silently berates herself on how quickly she does so. “Are you mental?” She whispers angrily, pushing both of their bodies deeper into the shadows. “You can’t just pull people like that, Malfoy!”

He grunts as he wipes away a trickle of blood from his nose. “Head-butting your way into the war, Granger?” He snarls.

She feels the annoyance creep into her, because this is _not_ the perfect place or time for him to berate her fighting abilities.

“Don’t make me break your jaw as well.”

She can feel the heat of his glare through the shadows—can hear a barely audible growl at the back of his throat. “The diadem.”

“What?”

“The fucking diadem, Granger,” He whispers harshly. “It’s in the Headmaster’s office.”

He pushes her roughly out of the shadows, towards the direction of the office before she can even get a word out.

Getting angry with his manhandling, she turns to glare at the blond and finds him already staring at her, his cloak softly billowing at his feet, his wand firmly gripped in his hand. “Run along now.” He drawls, putting his mask back into place.

And so she does. Skidding to halt at the end of the corridor, she turns back one last time to look at him. “Malfoy,” He doesn’t respond, but when he stays, staring at her form, she continues. “Stay alive.”


	3. Fabricated city

A silent hum envelope the kitchen as the first sign of light appeared in the distance. Outside, the trees sways with the February wind, reminding her of one particular day on the beach. Harry’s dark hair blowing off his face, Ron’s freckled face catching the sun, his eyelashes shining, long and thick. The memory felt a million years ago.

Hermione hears a thud behind her and is quick to reach for a wand that is not there, but it’s only Lavender standing there when she turns around. “You’re up early.” The blonde crosses the room to the cupboard where they keep the glasses.

She shrugs a shoulder, as if it is enough of an explanation. Grabbing her cup of tea beside the sink, she lowers herself on one of the functional dining chairs just as Lavender turns to face her.

“I want to have a baby.” Lavender says suddenly, tightly holding on to her glass.

Hermione chokes on her tea. “What?”

“I mean it.” Lavender sits on the chair in front of Hermione, her voice tight. “I haven’t discussed it with Ron, but…I—I want to.”

She could only look at Lavender, who only three years ago only cared for herself and her appearance. How can she handle a baby? “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Hermione, I’m sure.” Lavender gives her a determined nod.

“Lavender…” Hermione slowly places her hand on top of Lavender’s. “Do you really want to bring a child into this war?”

At her words, she sees uncertainty bloom in Lavender’s face, but it is quickly replaced with a determined look. “Why not? _You_ were able to pull it off.”

Hermione withdraws her hand from the blonde’s. “That’s different, Lav. Pol was something I didn’t plan on.” She grips her mug again and stares at the remaining contents. “I love him, I do. But if I was given a chance to change what happened I would.”

“But—”

“This is not the kind of world I want for my son.” She looks at Lavender again. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. But you—you still have time to change the world for your children.”

Lavender looks down at her hands. “What if I die tomorrow? Or the next day? What if Ron dies?” Lavender stands up quickly. “We won’t be able to have that, Hermione.”

“Would you rather die now, or die sometime in the future leaving your child parentless?” Hermione rises and places a hand on Lavender’s shoulder. It is clear on the blonde’s face that she is having an internal battle with herself. “I’m just looking out for you, Lav.”

“I know.”

“Think about it.”

* * *

“What do you call that?” Pol points at the radish-looking plant, Molly was tending to.

Molly gives the toddler a tender smile. “Those are called Dirigible Plums.” She says, picking a ripe one and giving it to the boy.

“Oh.” Pol examines the plant seriously. “It doesn’t look like a plum. It looks more like a radish. Why is that?”

“Well, I don’t really know.” Molly scrunches her face in thought. “No one’s asked before.”

Before Pol could ask more questions, Hermione swoops in and walks towards them from her previous position beside the back door. “I hope you’re not giving Molly grief, little bean.” She says, placing a hand on top of her son’s head.

The older woman chuckles, returning to her gardening. “Merlin, no. I quite enjoy some conversation while I work, gets a bit quiet around here.”

Hermione smiles sadly, staring at the back of Molly’s head. She knows that the Weasley matriarch is thinking of her husband.

Her mind drifts back to her conversation with Lavender earlier; to the blonde’s eagerness to have children. Seeing how Molly is coping with her husband’s death and how their children are handling it just further strengthens her stand against the issue, but at the same time, she knows that there’s a part of her that secretly supports her friend anyway.

“Well then, Pol’s the perfect candidate for that, aren’t you, my little chatter box?” She asks her son, who is still busy inspecting the Dirigible Plum in his hand.

“I am.” He nods absentmindedly. The two women can only laugh at the child’s endearing innocence.

It is times like this one that she forgets about the war. If she concentrated hard enough, this could’ve easily been just a normal day in Grimmauld Place—just two women and a child, having a quiet day at home. She could forget that Molly didn’t lose a husband from a killing curse or that every day she goes out to fight, she was risking the safety of her son. In this little bubble the moment created, she can think otherwise.

Hermione looks at her watch; a quarter ‘til 3pm. If they don’t go now, they are going to be late, and she sure doesn’t want that. It will be another thing he’ll hold against her.

She slowly pulls away the Dirigible Plum from Pol’s hand. “What do you say to a little walk?”

Molly turns to look at the mother and son, slowly placing the gardening shears on the ground. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, dear. The attacks are getting more frequent this month.” She reasons. “I know that we have wards and all, but we have to be vigilant.”

Hermione smiled at the older woman. “I know, but we’ll be careful. Right, Pol?” At the child’s nod, she continues. “And besides, we’ve been doing this every month, it’s already tradition.”

“Please, Grandma Molly. Let Pol and Mommy take a walk, please.” Pol grabs the older woman’s hand, using a tactic Hermione knows Molly would never say no to.

It scares her sometimes, the similarities that Pol and his father shared.

“Oh, alright.” Molly relents. “Just be careful, you two. I know that you’re just visiting your father’s grave, but you know what Moody always says.”

 “Constant vigilance!” Pol shouts, his hands in the air.

* * *

Hand in hand, Hermione and her son walk towards the forest outside Grimmauld place. The whole lot, including one kilometer of the forest near the structure was heavily warded, which prompted the Order’s leniency towards their monthly walks. But as it is, Hermione knows that they were still being observed and with that she casts her usual transfiguration spell on a tree as to resemble her and Pol.

From afar, it looked like she and Pol were propped beside the tree, reading. She has been doing this every month of their walk, so far no one from the Order has caught on, or if they had, they haven’t mentioned anything.

Walking deeper into the forest, she turns left until she reaches the willow tree with the small pond. There is no one there.

She doesn’t know if he would come, it has been two months since he came to their meeting place. She knows that it isn’t easy getting away from his side as opposed to hers, and she understands if he would not be able to come again this time.

Pol was getting fussy, wiggling his hand out of her grip. She is almost sure that he will not be coming when she glimpses the top of his head emerging from the row of trees.

“Daddy!” Pol quickly slips his hand out of hers and runs toward the man approaching them. It was probably an error of judgment to let go of her son easily, but she knew that they were the only ones who knew this set up.

The toddler reaches his father and quickly wraps his little arms around the man’s legs, not wasting any time to talk about the happenings from his life since the last time they saw each other.

Hermione nods her head towards him in greeting. “Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually update every week, but I got busy with work, sorry! Anyway, show some love! <3


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